


rise & tread

by orphan_account



Category: Free!
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Frottage, M/M, Past Relationship(s), if you try hard enough you can imagine there's a plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-13 02:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2133879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kisumi is made of sugar and sunsets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

~

 

 

“So, how much do you remember?”

Kisumi’s voice slides across the smooth floor of the gym like silk, catches on the squeak of rubber against wood, and comes to Makoto’s ears in lilts.

He wants to kick his feet into the bleachers, the way he used to when he was fourteen, but now his legs are too long to swing; instead, his feet stay steady on the next step below, toes tapping to the beat of the ball bouncing between Kisumi’s palm and the floor. _Thud_. _Thud_.

“You chose the swim club after all,” Kisumi continues. _Thud_. The slow, controlled beat from his hand drums into the straightening of Makoto’s spine. “But we still had fun, didn’t we, Makoto-kun?”

“Mm. We did.” Makoto watches as Kisumi tosses the ball carelessly into the direction of the hoop. It goes in, of course.

“You still play?” The thud of the ball slows, speeds up, slows again and stops into a roll. Slow beats transfer themselves into the fall of footsteps instead; Kisumi makes his way towards the bleachers, the smile on his face sweeter and slower than the curl of his hair. “I won’t hold it against you if you don’t, you know. But it’s a shame we lost your height to the water.” _Beat. Beat._

“That’s,” Makoto starts. “That’s not entirely right, Ki-chan.”

It isn’t intentional, how the name slips out. But at the same time, Makoto thinks: that’s _them_ , all over again. That’s hazy afternoons cooling into evenings at the park, shivers running together like gears; that’s one shared blanket and clumsy gasps of foolish, heady pleasure; that’s times of the day and snatched solitary weekends when they’re Makoto-kun and Ki-chan, young and helplessly charmed by the simple and unexpected pastel sweetness of trading fruit candies between their lips. It comes back unintentionally, but at the same time, Makoto thinks: it could be a conscious decision, if he convinces himself so.

Kisumi’s smile deepens as he comes up the steps, six of them, swirling into Makoto’s row, stopping inches in front of him. “Isn’t it?”

“I was thinking something more like…” Makoto’s throat runs dry. He swallows. Runs his tongue over his lower lip. “It’s a shame we never had your drive for the water, too.”

“Hmm. That’s what I think, too,” whispers Kisumi, and he twines his fingers into the knot of Makoto’s tie, weaving and unweaving in quick, nimble tugs; it isn’t even reflex for Makoto to respond, tilting his head forwards to meet his lips -- it’s _want_ , at this point, want that pries Kisumi’s mouth open, want that seeks the faint trace of the afternoon’s apples behind his teeth.

“You got better, Makoto-kun,” Kisumi says when they break apart, tie slithering loose from around Makoto’s neck to hang from his fingers.

“So did you.”

“Then let me ask you again: how much do you remember?”

They don’t have to spell everything out anymore, not like when they were younger -- there aren’t any “I think”- and “like this?”- and “maybe if we”- type phrases starting and stopping each move. Kisumi tugs Makoto down on top of him, slim metal slab harsh and cold under his back, his legs hanging from either side.

“I remember this,” Makoto gets out in a whisper, his lips ghosting across the corner of Kisumi’s eye, “I remember you liked being kissed here,” at his temple, “and here,” at the corner of his jaw, “here, too,” just next to his fluttering pulse. “But I learned some things, too.”

“That’s great,” and Kisumi laughs, “so did I.” He leans back into the metal seat. “Want me to show you?”

Makoto nods.

“Then tie me up, Makoto-kun,” says the other boy, grinning, “you don’t need that in your hands right now.”

When Kisumi’s hands are secured above his head, wrist bones jutting delicately into the bleachers, Makoto leans to kiss him again, easing his shirt apart slowly, revealing pale, smooth skin inch by inch. Kisumi breaths slow and soft under him, following his pace, and Makoto lets himself revel. Kisumi looks sweet and tastes sweet, cotton-candy hair spilling against bright metal, mouth cherry-red with brimming kisses, skin like thick cream on his tongue. He looks sweet and open like he always did; Makoto used to think that the hood of his eyes hid secrets, before he realized that clues were left elsewhere, in the flitting of his hands or the sharpness of his smile or the set of his shoulders.

What Makoto remembers comes back in pieces as he works his mouth down Kisumi’s chest. They never got farther than messy kisses back then, messy kisses and tactless collisions of their bodies, which isn’t surprising, considering they were only fifteen, but now Makoto knows what to do, knows things like finesse and technique -- so by the time he has Kisumi’s shirt unbuttoned completely, the other boy is groaning quietly, hips stuttering into Makoto’s stomach.

He remembers back then, being constantly in awe of how _pretty_ Kisumi was, all points and grace and long eyelashes; Kisumi looks like he was born out of a sunset, especially now, every shade of a fiery sky painted across his skin, eyes darkening, neck and chest flushing a delicious, glowing red, luminous in the real sunset that plays out outside the gym. He remembers back then, the kinds of sounds Kisumi made when he was close, or startled, or happy: the hum in his diaphragm, the laugh tucked in his throat. He remembers back then, they used to forget things -- too concentrated on one thing, forgetting another; now he remembers to come back up and kiss Kisumi, using one hand for balance and slipping the other one between their bodies. Kisumi moans, louder this time.

“Jesus,” he says after a moment, shuddering when Makoto’s palm presses a certain way into the front of his pants, “what have you been up to?”

“Swimming?” Makoto laughs, too, a pleased laugh that he hasn’t felt for too long. “I thought you were going to show me something too, Ki-chan --”

And then he feels the flex of Kisumi’s stomach -- actually _feels_ it, the tensing in his body sudden and startling -- as he swings his legs up to crush Makoto against him, hard, his hand caught between them still. Kisumi grinds hard into his palm, picking up the pace, and then it’s not so much slow (re)discovery as driving forwards into new territory.

Makoto aches. He moves his hand to gain better balance, positioning them both next to Kisumi’s head, fingers pinning the pink strands against the metal in a way that can’t possibly be pleasant, but Kisumi hisses and shifts, bucking against Makoto hard enough that he can almost pretend that the clothes separating them don’t exist. Almost. The parts of him that aren’t pressed up against Kisumi are cold, bright metallic cold seeping into his knees and the heels of his palms, but the relentless, deliberate roll of Kisumi’s body and the continuous moans pouring from his throat drive heat sharp into Makoto’s stomach, needling its way downwards and fanning outwards.

This part is familiar, Makoto thinks, as Kisumi surges upwards to find his lips -- but it’s sharper and cleaner and _better_ than it used to, their movements magnetic and forceful, guided by the way Kisumi’s legs tighten around him. When he comes it’s sudden and almost unwanted; he comes with a shout, slumping on top of the other boy, breathing harshly. Kisumi lets out a breath that could almost pass for a laugh.

“Knew it,” he says.

“Knew what?”

“Knew I could make you come without my hands _or_ my mouth.” Kisumi doesn’t seem to care, particularly, that Makoto is heavy enough to cut his breath short. “Kind of wanted to, though.”

“Wanted to -- what,” Makoto asks, again, breathing in the scent of Kisumi’s neck, trying his best to ignore the stickiness in his briefs, too conscious of the fact that Kisumi is still hard, flushed with victory.

“Use my mouth,” Kisumi grins at him, lopsided, “give you a taste of your own medicine.”

Makoto envisions briefly what Kisumi would look like kneeling between his legs. It isn’t particularly healthy for his heart rate.

“But you could use yours again,” continues Kisumi, “to finish me off.” It’s not a suggestion. Kisumi can see it -- could see it even back then -- how Makoto likes (liked) to taste him. It’s not a suggestion and Makoto senses it, gets up wordlessly despite the exhaustion setting into his body, and slips Kisumi’s pants down to mid-thigh.

It doesn’t take long, not with the desperate filthy way Makoto swallows him down, straining against the stretch of his lips and the burn in his throat. He has to hold Kisumi’s thighs apart when he starts to come, fucking up into Makoto’s mouth, hands braced above his head and his back arching off the bleachers, spilling hotly into his mouth.

Makoto wipes at the corners of his lips, and they breathe, and he learns all over again the gorgeous flush of heat illuminated across Kisumi’s body.

“Kisumi,” he says, vaguely, “I have a question for you.”

“Mm…” Kisumi’s eyes open sleepily, like the promise of a calm evening after a hectic day. “Yeah?”

“How much do _you_ remember?”

Kisumi smiles, sugar sweet.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i caved and kisumako'd again. in case you did not see: **warnings for** breathplay, choking, implied foodplay, kisumi is really bossy and always gets his way, there is zero plot to this. if you like makorin you can read a better breathplay fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1048607).

\--

 

 

Kisumi’s whisper chills against Makoto’s cheek like the cooling of mint on his tongue, residue from the candy they’d been passing back and forth between their mouths like some joint. He’s got Makoto pinned down onto his bed, soft brown hair splayed out on poppy-red covers. Makoto always imagined poison to be green, the kind of sick electric green illustrated in picture books of witches’ brews and greedy wish-makers, but now he thinks poison could be red instead: the toxic red of Kisumi’s sheets and the tempting red on his lips and the sharp cinnamon red of his tongue dipping into his ear.

“Let’s do something fun, hey, Makoto?”

“What, umm… what -- this isn’t fun?”

Fun probably isn’t the right word for it. Trying to undo candy wrappers with only their mouths, that was fun. This is more like sleepy contentment, hazing around in the limbo between rounds one and two, palms and knuckles brushing across wherever they felt like, taking advantage of an empty house and an extra fan angling wind around the room.

Makoto feels Kisumi’s teeth, rolling the flesh of his ear between the even whites gently. “Something more fun.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” Kisumi pushes himself onto his elbows and hovers there, smiling sleepily in the light of the afternoon, and Makoto feels, somewhere, that he should be cautious of this boy, with his cloud-like hair and his gold-weight eyelids and his scythe-curve smile. Then Kisumi’s voices soothes away the sandy worries in his mind, dissipating like sea foam. “What if I sucked you off?”

“Wh-- like, now?”

“Well, yeah.” Tapered fingers dance across his chest. Makoto shivers. “Unless you mean like, in fifteen seconds while we both get naked, which is also kind of fun. Don’t you wanna?”

“I,” Makoto says, intelligence dripping from the crackle of air in his throat, “yeah?”

Kisumi’s expression softens. “What’s up, Makoto? You look kinda uneasy.”

“It’s just. Uh. Last time we. You. And then I.”

“Oh, that,” and Kisumi licks his lips, looking pretty much self-satisfied, which should make Makoto look alarmed but only succeeds in making him gape. “Don’t worry. I practiced.”

Makoto’s mouth feels sticky with candy and kisses and what he dimly registers could be mild shock. “Oh.” A thought occurs to him. “What do you mean, you practiced? What would you even practice on? You don’t have like, a life-size model of my --”

The back of his head hits the mattress, cushioned again into blistering red while Kisumi’s laugh rings out around him, and then Kisumi’s lips are on his again, quick and hungry. When Kisumi pulls back again Makoto’s forgotten what he was going to say.

“So, can I?”

Makoto groans as Kisumi’s fingers pop open the button on his pants and tug down the zipper. “Yeah. Yeah, please.”

The way Kisumi pulls down his pants shouldn’t nearly be as erotic as it is, especially with how gleeful he looks doing it, but then the rest of his thought derails into shards of dyed glass. He sits up and Kisumi slides off the bed onto his knees, takes the tip of him into his mouth and Makoto loses the moan he’s been biting back, lets the sound bubble up from the back of his throat and arch into the air. He wants to touch the corners of Kisumi’s mouth and see if his lips are really stretched thin as they look, rounded and red, always red.

Kisumi pushes himself down until Makoto can feel the flex of his throat, strained and frantic like a rabbit’s heartbeat. When he looks, though, peering through damp bangs, Kisumi’s eyes are fluttering shut like he can’t get enough of this, can’t get enough of having Makoto in his mouth, can’t get enough of the ache in his jaw or the tension lining his back, his shoulders, skin smooth and milky and awash with sunlight. The thought makes Makoto jerk his hips roughly upwards, and Kisumi gives a muffle moan that Makoto swears reverberates all the way up into his stomach.

He hears Kisumi breathing through his nose, mouth held open, feels the gentle flex-contract-release of his throat, feels the tightening of fingers at his thighs.

And then Kisumi takes one of his hands and fixes his fingers around his neck, and squeezes.

Makoto realizes that he’s been kind of heavily quiet, hot silent breaths spilling out from his lips and then reeled back in with each inhale, each cycle stretching elastic, wearing thin. He has his fingers around Kisumi’s throat, and Kisumi is moaning loud enough for Makoto to feel both the vibrations and the thrum of his muscles working. Kisumi’s skin is tender against his fingers, softer than the quiver of a kitten’s nose where the tip of his index finger crooks into his pulse, and his mouth is hot and slick at the base of his cock, just held there.

If the world ended right then and there, Makoto thinks, he probably wouldn’t even notice; his whole focus is on Kisumi’s slender neck, the way he holds his mouth open, jaw loose, as he steadily uses Makoto’s hand to choke the last dregs of oxygen out of his throat. Kisumi’s face reddens and the soft tissue in his neck pulses against the head of Makoto’s dick, dripping down his throat. Makoto wonders if it feels like anything, and then he wonders how Kisumi can manage to look like this, with his messy chin and his cotton candy hair everywhere and his eyes glazed over into slush, and still be the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.

Beautiful and red, sunset tipping into night, dying daylight.

Then it’s like someone’s snapped a whip against the back of Makoto’s head, and his hand goes lax. He hears Kisumi gasp as air rushes back into his lungs. “Kisumi -’

He can feel, like someone’s amped up his senses, each tiny motion of Kisumi’s throat, the way it closes rapidly around him. “Kisumi, I’m --”

Kisumi’s eyes open all the way to look at him, calm as a sunset, and his hand slowly but firmly forces Makoto’s hold to tighten, even though he can barely make a sound. His eyes close again, and Makoto suddenly gets it -- Kisumi likes this. He’s not doing it for Makoto. He knows Makoto better than that.

He’s doing it for himself, because he’s always been a little selfish, taking and taking: first Makoto from Haru, then Makoto’s first kiss, Makoto’s first confession, Makoto’s first relationship. And now because they’re here again, he takes it again, except this time he takes more; he takes all of Makoto’s apprehension that he used to blow off, and he wraps it between their fingers, and he laces it around his own neck and makes it work for himself.

Makoto watches the slashes of red on Kisumi’s high cheekbones spread, darken. Watches as Kisumi takes a feeble, shredded gasp around his cock, his expression one of pure bliss.

Makoto sits on the covers red as poppies and feels high, like each glass-torn breath Kisumi takes is for him, and when he starts flexing his hands, digging rhythmically into the soft flesh of Kisumi’s neck, Kisumi’s hips roll forward, slow, tantalizing.

“You like that?” Makoto whispers, the words melting like candy floss, “Kisumi?”

He’s breathing so hard, like he has to take twice the amount of oxygen for both of them, and there’s sweat on his back, and the tortured heat of Kisumi’s mouth is so terrifyingly good that he hasn’t even noticed.

He supposes that’s what makes Kisumi so fucking hot -- having someone being able to take measures of you like that, being able to know when to push and when not to push; it’s been a long time coming, he thinks, but the realization that Kisumi has this kind of reading on him makes him bold, trusting. Especially now, in this situation, the flutter of Kisumi’s pulse under his fingers, the pulse of Kisumi’s throat around his dick, infinitely more intimate than anything they’ve done before. Kisumi’s hair is kittenishly soft, laced around his other hand, and Makoto takes another moment to appreciate the strong, clean lines of his body before he presses forwards a little more, shifting.

Lets his eyes glaze over the transition between uncertainty and bliss.

Lets his mind focus solely on the slow movement of Kisumi’s head, the slickness running into his hand.

Kisumi lets go of his hand in order to rub at the front of his pants with a startled moan, and the sound of it, the feel of it, drives Makoto over the edge, drives his hips forwards hard against Kisumi’s face, heat flashing across his stomach as he spills himself down Kisumi’s overworked throat.

By the time the yellow in his vision fades, he’s flopped back into Kisumi’s bed, watching the other boy massage his neck gently. Then Kisumi climbs shakily over him, takes his hand, the one that had choked him, and places it against the dampness between his legs.

“You --”

Makoto licks his lips. Kisumi does the same.

“Yeah. All for you, Makoto. Heh.”

His voice sounds like it’s still being forced back by something heavy in his throat. Makoto’s eyebrow twitches as his thumb traces the cracked corner of Kisumi’s mouth. “Did I hurt you?”

“A little,” Kisumi shrugs, but it’s an excited shrug. “In a good way.”

Makoto rolls them over so he can see the bruised line of Kisumi’s neck, pale and silver-gold, and licks gently at his pulse point. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For knowing --”

Kisumi giggles all high and out of control and self-satisfied against his forehead. “Yeah, yeah. Told you it’d be fun.”

He wraps his legs around Makoto’s waist and drags him back down, in a way that’s familiar by now, and lets Makoto administer agreement by pressing soft kisses on his face.

Makoto gazes down at him, marvels at how the flush on his cheekbones, his chest, seems to bleed into the narcotic red of his sheets. Kisumi grins up at him like he knows exactly what Makoto’s thinking, catches Makoto into the red haze, and then takes one of the cherries sitting on his nightstand and pushes it into his mouth. Sweetness bursts across his tongue, and like he always does, Kisumi leans up, graceful and deliberate, and catches it.

 

 

 

 


End file.
